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SEA MOODS 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR 

English Lyrical Poetry, (Second printing) 
Lyra Yalensis, ( Out of print) 

IN PREPARATION 

Songs from the English Drama 
The English Poetical Miscellany 



SEA MOODS 



AND OTHER POEMS 



By 
EDWARD BLISS REED 




NEW HAVEN: YALE UNIVERSITY PRESS 
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD 
* OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS 
MDCCCCXVII 






^V"^ 



Copyright, 1917 
By Yale University Press 



First published, October, 1917 



Some of these verses which have appeared in the Forge, the 
Forum, the Independent and the Yale Review, are reprinted with 
the permission of the editors of these periodicals. 




SEP 24 1917 

©r,U473708 
"It ^ i 



To M. B. R. 



CONTENTS 






PAGE 


Three Friends . . . . i 


Stars 








3 


The Wife . 








4 


Homesick 








8 


Frenchman's Bay 








lO 


Fragrance . 








12 


Wishes 








14 


Fog . 








i6 


The Heritage 








i8 


Sea Dreams 








20 


The Storm . 








21 


Romance 








24 


Recompense 








26 


Despair 








28 


Adventure . 








29 


Flowers 








32 


The Dawn . 








Z^ 


Prayer 








38 


Poplars 








40 


A Portrait . 








42 


The Silence 








• 43 



vu 



Contents 






PAGE 


To Memory . . . . 44 


War 






46 


To an Oxford Friend 






48 


Paul . 






50 


The Bird . 






53 


Cavalier Song 






55 


A Memory . 






56 


Fame 






57 


A Picture . 






58 


The Lecture 






59 


The Wood Road . 






61 


Rain . 






63 


September . 






65 



vni 



SEA MOODS 



THREE FRIENDS 

Fate and hard foes are prevailing? 

Friends leave you stricken? The three, 
When was their strength ever failing, 

The cliff, and the wind, and the sea ! 

Steep climbs the path — never shun it — 
Up where the hidden larks sing; 

There is rest on the cliff when you've won it, 
In the grass that is fragrant with ling. 

No cry from the gulls, dipping, calling; 

No voice from the boats far below; 
No sound from the waves, leaping, falling, 

To edge the sand crescent with snow. 

Here stilled is the scourging emotion, 
And hushed is the Memory's sigh 

In the limitless peace of the ocean. 
In the moors rolling up to the sky. 

Comes the wind ; with a shout he is chasing 
The crested waves — faster he flies. 

The fishing fleet homeward is racing. 
Cloud galleons speed down the skies. 



Three Friends 

Sheer the cliff ; but your dauntless desiring 
Through the high gates of Heaven shall 
climb. 

Your spirit, keen, quenchless, untiring, 

Shall pass the gray mere-stones of Time. 

Strong the wind; now the far sails are filling. 

Outstripping each bark shall you go 
Through fathomless seas where the thrilling 

Swift winds of the spirit shall blow. 

The baffled waves, ceaselessly ranging. 
Must find at the cliff their far goal; 

More resistless, onrushing, unchanging. 
Sweep the measureless tides of the soul. 

Man, are strong foes pressing near you? 

Seek out your friends — they are three. 
Are they not waiting to cheer you. 

The cliff, and the wind, and the sea ! 



STARS 

Across the harbor, up the mountain's base 
And down the curving shore, the far lights 
burn. 

By every gleam the hidden road I trace 
Through bend and turn. 

Due westward where the ridges dip and rise 
Are scattered farms, each one a glimmer- 
ing spark. 

The village lights seem clustering fireflies 
Lost In the dark. 

O'erhead In fields vast as eternity, 

Through the calm night celestial beacons 
glow. 

Speak, brooding Ocean; their bright mystery 
Do you not know ? 

Are they the lights of many a heavenly town 
Shining upon us through the streets of 
glass; 
Or do they mark the roads where up and 
down 
The spirits pass? 



THE WIFE 

The day was fair, the wind blew steadily. 
We raised the sails and headed straight to 

sea, 
Gay fugitives from that mad prison pen, 
The City; the new Moloch to whom men 
Offer themselves a living sacrifice. 
We had escaped. Sudden before our eyes 
Unrolled the wind-tossed carpet of the seas, 
The radiant fields of heaven shone. At ease, 
Sprawling upon the deck, we watched on high 
The lazy clouds, outstripped as we sped by; 
Laughed as the spray flew over us, and now 
Heard the waves singing round our eager 

prow. 
Like drowsy children, careless and content, 
We looked but questioned not what all this 

meant. 

Rousing us from this happy lethargy. 
Our artist called us to awake and see 
The ocean shadows drifting clouds had made. 
With half the waves in light, and half in 
shade. 



The Wife 

His pipe in hand, he praised the skill of one 
Whose brush could catch the waters, hold 

the sun. 
And fix the heavens in a gilded frame. 
Our poet spoke of one, assured of fame. 
Whose verse swayed with the rhythm of the 

tide 
And foam-peaked waves, and dipping gulls. 

He tried 
To sing a ballad he had lately made. 
From that we talked of music; how one 

played 
Until it seemed Nature herself had sent 
All earthly tones to his small instrument. 
At length we felt our day was incomplete. 
Old Adam rose within us — we must eat. 

Hot from the cabin, eagerly we took 

The feast prepared by our much-lauded cook; 

Well fed, untroubled, what more could life 

give? 
"Brothers," said one, "this is the way to live, 
Feasting on chowder, nature, verse, and art." 
"Here," said the skipper, "hand me up that 

chart. 



The Wife 

That sky looks angry. Luckily we planned 
To sail no further; now we'll make for land." 
We found upon the chart our little bay 
And all the reefs that barred our vessel's way. 
The wind blew sharply as we went about. 
"There's nasty weather coming, it's no 
doubt." 

As we drew near the harbor a small boat 

Came bounding towards us. In tarpaulin 
coat 

A fisher, all alone, stood at the wheel. 

*'Look," cried our skipper, "how would you 
folks feel 

To be there sailing five miles out to sea? 

And that's a woman; she's the kind for me. 

It's do or die, her children must be fed, 

And she must find the food, her man half- 
dead. 

In a rough sea like this, it takes a lot 

Of strength to pull in just one lobster pot; 

And then to hold your boat, in wind and rain. 

That's the best woman on the coast of 
Maine." 

And now her boat shot past us, and we all 

Raised a loud cheer, but if she heard our call, 

6 



The Wife 

She never turned, nor waved to us her hand. 
Against the darkening sky we saw her stand, 
Holding her course, drenched by the driving 

spray. 
We watched her till she faded far away. 
Abashed we stood, we who had played with 

life, 
Awed by the sudden glimpse of that lone 

wife; 
Like guilty men who silently confess. 
Stunned by the thought of our own littleness. 



HOMESICK 

Shipwrecked in 'this grimy town, the worst 

luck I have had; 
Soot and smoke to make you choke, and mills 

to drive you mad. 
Noise and din, and filth and sin — but I'm a 

sailor lad, 
And tomorrow I'll go sailing out to sea. 

"How are you, mate?" says I to one, and 

stretches out my hand. 
"Don't talk to me, I'm late," says he. It's 

hard to understand 
How people find the time to breathe in this 

forsaken land — 
But tomorrow I'll go sailing out to sea. 

Here the children always cry, the women 
always scold; 

A week in town has made me feel a hundred 
years grown old, 

Another week would have me buried under- 
neath the mould, 
So tomorrow I'll go sailing out to sea. 



Homesick 

Here in town you see no stars, so close the 
housetops meet; 

There isn't any wind — just dust comes blow- 
ing down the street; 

The smells, there's hundreds of them, they 
are anything but sweet. 
Oh ! tomorrow I'll be saiHng out to sea. 

"Live here," says one, "in all our mills big 

wages they will give." 
"Avast," says I, "I'd rather bail the ocean 

with a sieve; 
Don't talk to me of living when you don't 

know how to live." 
So tomorrow I'll be sailing out to sea. 

I'm glad I never married for there's no wife 

like my ship; 
Tomorrow on her deck again I'll feel her rise 

and dip, 
The clean, cold wind against my cheek, the 
salt spray on my lip. 
Oh ! tomorrow I'll be sailing out to sea. 



FRENCHMAN'S BAY 

Sudden and swift the mountains rise, 

Smiting the heavens free; 
Close at their heads are the sun-swept skies, 

And close at their feet — the sea. 

For the fleet waves race past the mountains' 
base ' 

To the calm of the pine-fringed bay; 
They come from the deeps where the tempest 
sweeps 
Round dim isles far away. 

Now the waves are black with the storm- 
wind's track, 

They are green as a mermaid's eyes. 
When faint stars shine they are crimson wine, 

They are wan when the daylight dies. 

On the rocks they moan in a sullen tone, 
Like wolves on the beach they leap. 

They ripple and sigh in a lullaby 
Charming a child to sleep. 

lO 



Frenchman's Bay 

In the loveless day when the skies are gray, 

The sea Is a widow old; 
Beneath the moon, she's a bride of June, 

Glowing in cloth of gold. 

But the peaks are unmoved by the plundering 
storm, 
Unthrllled by the moonlight's lure. 
What change can they know, what passion's 
glow. 
Those mountains strong and sure? 

Safe on the hill you may rest who will, 
But the waves weave a spell for me ; 

Where the tide runs high, where the shrill 
gulls cry, 
I follow the restless sea. 



II 



FRAGRANCE 

The woodsman loves the smell of pines, 

The mower In the sun 
Takes pleasure in the fragrant grass 

When the long swath is done. 

The ploughman strikes a precious jar 

Of ointment for his toil 
When all his furrowed field gives forth 

The clean smell of the^ soil. 

In May the apple orchards stand 

Pale priestesses In white; 
Each tree a laden censer bears, 

Fit for a queen's delight. 

Over the doorway of the house 

The honeysuckle clings. 
Its fragrance makes the little room 

Fit for the court of kings. 

But sweeter far than earth or grass. 

Than flower or blossomed tree. 
Are the odors that the South wind brings 

From the gardens of the sea. 

12 



Fragrance 

They tell of islands, starry skies, 
Of waves with crests of snow. 

Of leagues of shining waters where 
The great ships come and go. 

Pleasant the smell of new-mown hay, 
And sweet the flowering vine. 

But the odor that can stir the heart 
Is the keen scent of the brine. 

Cassia and aloes, nard and myrrh, 

Perfumes of Araby, 
I'd give them all for the winds that blow 

From the gardens of the sea. 



13 



WISHES 

Could I, with Joshua of old, 

Command the restless stars at will, 

Shout to the sun and bid it hold. 
We should be cruising still. 

On we should sail from reach to reach 
Nor care to skirt the wooded shore; 

Past island cliffs and sunny beach, 
Then out to sea once more. 

Through warmer oceans, faring south 
Where the green, shining islands stand, 

We'd sail up some strange river's mouth 
And anchor near the land. 

There birds of every sunset-hue 
Chatter and dart from tree to tree. 

Content, we'd watch the long day through 
Nature's gay pageantry. 

The call of trade, the factories drown 
All Nature's voices; here the din 

Of this drab, cheerless, selfish town 
Deadens the song within. 

14 



Wishes 

Give to me, then, for one brief day, 
The power to hold the sun at will 

On seas a thousand leagues away 
We shall be cruising still. 



15 



FOG 

All morn a driving rain swept down 
And blurred with mist the fishing town 

Skirting the wooded bay, 
Till the meadow grass bent with its silver 

load, 
New brooks dashed over the sodden road. 

And the tamarack tops turned gray. 

At noon the rain ceased. Then there came 
The fog — smoke of a sea aflame, 

The dead earth's shroud of white. 
It hid the wharf and the church on the hill, 
It covered the woods — and the birds were 
still. 

It blotted the harbor light. 

And all night long with a mournful clang 
The lighthouse bell in warning rang 

Lest the reef might seize a prey. 
And faintly, far through the mist inborne. 
Some laboring vessel's distant horn 

Sounded, then died away. 

i6 



Fog 

By the harbor's edge, in that gray house there, 
An old man sits all night in his chair, 

For the mists on his mind have lain. 
He stirs at the sound of the tolling bell, 
His lips move — something he strives to tell. 

Then his head drops down again. 

Morn, and a warm earth born anew; 
All that the mists had wrapped from view 

Glows in revealing light. 
There are jewels hung from the pine tree's 

spill. 
All glittering white is the church on the hill. 

But the old man sits in night. 

''Death, churl death," men have vainly 

prayed, 
"Let thy coming be long delayed." 

Mine is a better strain: 
''Call me to rest when the heaven shines blue. 
Let me not live when my life is through 

And the mists have shrouded the brain." 



17 



THE HERITAGE 

From the drear North, a cold and cheerless 
land, 

Our fathers sprang. 
They drove no flocks to crop the tender grass, 
They gazed on lonely moor, on deep morass, 
And wintry skies whence, to their viking band. 

The raven sang. 

O'er flowerless lands the storm-tossed forests 
threw 
A gloomy pall. 
On treacherous seas they raised their plunder- 
ing sail. 
Fought with the waves, outrode the Northern 

gale. 
High overhead the startled sea gulls flew 
With clamoring call. 

They heard the breakers smite the quivering 
shore 
With thunder roll. 
No songs they sang to greet the Harvest 

wain 
In happy fields rich with the ripened grain'; 

i8 



The Heritage 

Stern was their world, a sorrow stern they 
bore 
Deep in the soul. 

Through countless years, faint memories of 

their times 
Will oft awake. 
From waves and shifting sands, their resting 

place. 
The Norsemen send us, offspring of their 

race. 
Dimly remembered dreams, like minster 

chimes 
Heard o'er a lake. 

So come dark moments, when in this green 
land 
Norsemen are we; 
And crave the sorrow of the leafless wood. 
Or seek some barren dune's gray solitude 
To hear bleak winds go moaning down the 
sand. 
By the wild sea. 



19 



SEA DREAMS 

Sailor, sailor, why must you go 

Out past the rim of the sky? 
Charts have not told the quaint lands I behold 

From this gray rock where I lie. 

Hunter, hunter, what do you seek 

Climbing the mountain side? 
No game is there like, the wild thoughts I 
snare 

Watching the turn of the tide. 

Fisherman, fisherman, drag in your nets; 

Come from the perilous seas. 
My dream nets hold strange fish, blue and 
gold. 

Here where I lie at ease. 

Sailor and fisherman drift down the sky. 
Woods hide the hunter from me; 

So fisherman, hunter, and sailor am I, 
Playing with dreams by the sea. 



20 



THE STORM 

The sun sank In a sheer abyss of cloud, 

While long and loud, 
A prelude to the fight, the ocean roared. 

Beneath a pall of black 

The stealthy storm lay plotting Its at- 
tack. 
Then on the earth Its sudden wrath out- 
poured. 

After the driving rain 

Fierce rushed the hurricane. 
From roof-tree to the sill 
The cottage trembled when with desperate 

shout 
And brutal challenge, putting hope to rout, 
The pitiless wind charged wildly up the hill. 

The trees that dared resist uprooted lay 

A helpless prey; 
And one, the last of all his kingly race, 

A tall, broad-bodied oak. 

Fell shattered to the heart. The light- 
ning's stroke 

21 



The Storm 

Through a cleft side drove deep its deadly 
trace. 
With the next peal there came 
A sudden burst of flame: 
The barn, in blazing light, 
Crashed to the earth, then sputtered in the 

dark, 
A smouldering ruin, an abandoned mark, 
Shattered by the artillery of night. 

Within the home the children called in fear. 

They could not hear 
The words of comfort that the mother spoke. 
Waked from a faery dream 
They shook in terror at each startling 
gleam. 
Stunned by the bolt that felled their dear- 
loved oak. 
At this dark, evil hour 
Her voice lost its calm power 
To drive night-fears away, 
And hush the sobs, for still she must repeat 
"Sleep, rest and sleep, then soon your little 

feet 
Will dance with joy in the warm, peaceful 
day." 

22 



The Storm 

The winds swept past; the rain ceased; with 
the morn 

The earth, new-born, 
Glittered and sparkled. In a dazzling green 

Shone every hill and tree. 

And this day's miracle, far out at sea 
Lay wooded islands we had never seen. 

White cliffs, blue waves requite 

The terrors of the night. 
Forgotten, with the day, 
The crashing thunder and the lightning's 

glare. 
The birds are singing; happy children there 
Upon the fallen tree, shout as they play. 



23 



ROMANCE 

A wild rose grew by the ocean's edge, 
At the fringe of a grove of pine. 

She saw with joy from her sheltered ledge 
The vast sea glimmer and shine. 

She longed to float from her rocky bed 

To an isle in a southern sea 
For there she would glow a deeper red, 

More sweet would h'er fragrance be. 

She watched the white gulls swoop and poise, 
The gray sails fade from sight. 

^'AlasI" she said, "must I lose their joys. 
The wanderer's delight?" 

But when eager winds sang loudly "Come," 
She trembled and paled with fear. 

Gladly she clung to her rocky home 
With the sheltering balsam near. 

One day, as she bent to the rocks below, 

A sea weed glistening there 
Said "Rose, poor rose, you can never know 

Love's power — yet you are fair. 

24 



Romance 

"Myself I gave to the swiftest wave 

Thrilled with life's ecstasy. 
He woo'd me and snatched me from ocean 
cave 

To carry me over the sea 

"Where the waves are warm and the sun Is 
bright ; 

Far south, In some coral bay, 
He will rock me and sing me to sleep at night, 

And dance with me all through the day. 

"He has left me here till he finds the track 
That leads where the south winds dwell. 

When the tide rolls In, he'll come leaping back 
And then, little rose, farewell." 

At night, when the wild rose bowed her head, 

She longed for a lover, too. 
She would give herself gladly to him, she said, 

Whenever he came to woo. 

She bent at morning to praise her friend 
Who greatly had dared love's deed; 

But beyond the rocks where the flood tides 
end 
Lay only a withered weed. 

25 



RECOMPENSE 

Where the green fir-tips meet the sapphire 
sky, 

A gull, cloud-white, 
Careless of earth, floats Insolently by 

In the warm light. 

Still, Imperturbable, It holds a course 

To lands unknown. 
And scornful of the south wind's gathering 
force 

It sails alone. 

Seeing unmoved the noon's exultant glow, 

The evening's grief. 
The wind-swept waves that crumble Into snow 

Upon the reef. 

The ships becalmed or scudding for the shore 

In wind and rain. 
Alluring Isles — all these It passes o'er 

In calm disdain. 

26 



Recompense 

Deep In the woods, the sea left far behind, 

I listen long, 
Searching In ambush, yet In vain, to find 

Who sings that song. 

I know those notes pure as the brooks that 
gush 

Down Alpine vale; 
Enchantress of the woods, the hermit-thrush, 

Our nightingale. 

Its world a forest bough; here In the shade 

It sings unseen 
The magic songs a yearning lover made 

To charm a queen. 

The ocean-wandering gull from all his quest 

Can nothing bring. 
You have the world within your throbbing 
breast. 

For you can sing. 



27 



DESPAIR 

As I came down the hillside 

To put to sea, 
I heard a girl a-singing — 

But not for me. 

As we sailed past the village, 

By that last pine 
A girl stood waving farewells — 

And none were mine. 

She stood there long a-watching 

Our vessel's track. 
But little is she hoping 

That I come back. 

My mates are singing, whistling. 

Half-dead I feel. 
I'm like a boat a-drifting 

With broken wheel. 

They hope for lucky fishing 

And some big haul. 
I once had luck past wishing — 

I've lost it all. 

28 



ADVENTURE 

I 

I loved my garden; in Its cloistered plot 

Blossomed the earliest daffodils of Spring. 
Hiding gray walls the roses climbed; each 
spot 
Breathed blessing; tender violets languish- 
ing 
Scattered faint incense. Honeysuckle sweet 
And fragrant grass — soft rest for tired 
feet — 
Enticed the care-worn soul. All that birds 
sing 
I knew, and with each note my heart would 

reach 
A tranquil joy beyond our mortal speech. 

One morn, across the distant, sheltering hill, 
Swift from the sea the eastern wind blew 
strong. 
The blackbird's note was hushed; as all grew 
still 
I heard far off that ancient, charmed 
song — 

29 



Adventure 

The ocean's call. The flowers I loved so 

well 
Trembled and died. Half freed from 

drowsy spell 
Of garden glamourie, I lingered long, 
Then opened wide the gate and out did 

pass — 
The red rose strewed its petals down the 

grass. 

Through the rich meadows, past the moors 
I went. 
(The song of birds came faintly down the 
hill) 
Sweeter than roses was the waves' keen scent, 
I heard the wheeling sea gulls calling shrill. 
With bruised hands I clambered down a ledge 
And reached — no resting place — the ocean's 
edge. 
Dim dreams came to my heart, brave 
thoughts that thrill. 
There lay a boat, for this day was I made. 
Push out ! and o'er the hill the roses fade. 



30 



Adventure 



II 



I cannot tell where lies my land, 
I have no guiding star, no chart; 

Clutching the tiller, firm I stand 

And fight the waves with unmoved heart. 

Tossed by the stealthy waves, alone 

On trackless tides where strange stars 
shine, 
I seek far regions, vast, unknown, 

(Hark! how the gale sweeps o^er the 
brine!) 

Rest — 'twas the empty gift of Death. 

The Gods themselves that man deride 
Who waits their word with trembling breath, 

His path untrod and life untried. 

'Tis cold. Far off in cloistered plot 
The roses bloom, the violets wait. 

Breakers ! — I would not change my lot, 
Nor turn dismayed from unknown Fate. 



31 



FLOWERS 

Her garden was her pleasure and her care; 
Morning and evening one could find her there 
Working and wondering. Every scent and 

hue 
Filled her with joy, with beauty pierced her 

through, 
For as her flowers opened to the sun 
Each seemed a radiant world her soul had 

won. 
This paradise of perfume her own hand 
Had made, this glowing tapestry she planned. 
From walls that kept marauding winds shut 

out 
A fountain splashed. A brook wound slow 

about 
Fields of spiced candytuft, hedged with trim 

box. 
Dark blue verbenas, larkspurs, snow-white 

phlox, 
And beds of heliotrope that in the night 
Offered rare incense for the stars' delight. 
Robin and catbird sought her iris pool, 
Fluttered and bathed them in its shallows 

cool, 

32 



Flowers 

Then poised one happy moment on Its banks 
To offer to the stream their lyric thanks. 
Here peace grew as a flower, yet deep at 

heart 
She felt a longing; she was not a part 
Of all this flower world. She dwelt exiled 
From hope, from love, from life. She 
craved — a child. 

One day she left her garden. In the heat 
And dizzy turmoil of a city street, 
Startled she heard a child's heart-broken cry, 
And stood transfixed; the surging crowd 

swept by. 
"Within the gutter stood — a sight of shame — 
Two wretched creatures. One could scarcely 

name 
Them man and woman; sin and black dis- 
grace 
Told a grim story in each brutal face. 
The woman pushed a box that served as cart. 
With broken wheels that sprawled and fell 

apart. 
In it, a child. No dirt, no rags could hide 
Its radiant beauty; Nature glorified 

33 



Flowers 

Upon that head her diadem had set — 
The man clutched at a half-smoked cigarette, 
Whereat the child leaped, laughing, in its 

place. 
The woman cursed and smote it in the face. 
Then, as it sobbed, jeered at its pain and 

fright. 
The crowd swept on and bore them from her 

sight. 

At evening slow she walked her garden round 
Seeking for peace — no peace, no rest she 

found. 
The child had passed forever from her life 
And yet its cry still pierced her as a knife. 
That was the plant, if God had heard her 

prayer. 
She would have watched unfolding in soft 

air; 
Or else her tree; she would have loved it 

when 
It offered boughs for birds and fruit for men. 
Or else a pine, set on a ledge to be 
A welcome guide for fishing fleets at sea ; 
An oak, the traveler's shade — God only knew 
With that life given her, what she might do. 

34 



Flowers 

A finch flashed by her, one she loved of old; 
She heard no song, she saw no breast of gold. 
She tried to bind the roses to the wall; 
Her hands dropped down — the mockery of 

it all! 
Within the shadow of a tree she crept, 
And by her flowers, in agony she wept. 



3S 



THE DAWN 

He shook his head as he turned away — 
"Is It life or death?" "We shall know by 
day." 

Out from the wards where the sick folk He, 
Out neath the black and bitter sky, 
Past one o'clock and the wind is chill. 
The snow-clad streets are ghostly still; 
No friendly noise, no cheering light. 
So calm the city sleeps tonight, 
I think its soul has taken flight. 

Back to the empty home — a thrill, 

A shudder at its darkened sill. 

For the clock chimes as on that morn. 

That happy day when she was born. 

And now. Inexorably slow. 

To life or death the hours go. 

Time's wings are clipped; he scarce can 

creep. 
Tonight no drug could bring you sleep; 
Watch at the window for the day; 
'Tis all that's left — to watch and pray. 

36 



The Dawn 

But I think the prayer of an anguished heart 
Must pierce that bleak sky hke a dart, 
And tear that pall of clouds apart. 

The poplars, edging the frozen lawn, 
Shudder and whisper: ''Wait till dawn." 

Two spirits stand beside her bed 

Softly stroking her curly head. 

Death whispers, "Come" — Life whispers, 

"Stay." 
Child, little child, go not away. 
Life pleads, "Remember" — and Death, 

"Forget." 
Little child, little child, go not yet. 
By all your mother's love and pain, 
Child of our heart, child of our brain. 
Stay with us ; go not till you see 
The Fairyland that life can be. 

* * * * * :}: 

The poplars, edging the frozen lawn, 
Are dancing and singing. "Thank God — 
the Dawn!" 



37 



PRAYER 

She cannot tell my name 

Nor whence I came. 

But when at night she hears my voice below 

My little girl runs quickly down the hall, 

Peers through the stair bars, laughing at my 

call. 
Yet who or what I am she does not know. 
Nor can she understand 
All that for her I've planne^d; 
That the day's \^ork without her would be 

vain, 
Or how her laughter clears the troubled 

brain; 
That her small hands, soft as the white rose 

leaf. 
Can ward off grief. 

Then as she runs to me, each faltering word 
Seems the divinest music I have heard. 
She does not know the father's love I feel, 
That were she gone, her death would pierce 

the heart like steel. 

O God, thy ways are dark. 
Man cannot mark 

38 



Prayer 

Thy path upon the mountain or the sea. 
We cannot read thy will or know thy mind, 
Baffled by one small world thou hast de- 
signed, 
Awed by the grandeur of infinity. 
He who can trace 
The marching stars through space. 
Measure the oceans, lift the mountains up, 
Scatter the perfume in the lily's cup. 
Planning for aeons, measuring each year. 
Will this God hear? 
Yes; if we call to Him in joy, dismay, 
(For that is prayer) He cannot turn away, 
A Father dwelling with us, not apart. 
When my child's call I hear, I catch her to 
my heart. 



39 



POPLARS 

The poplar Is a lonely tree. 

It has no branches spreading wide 

Where birds may sing or squirrels hide. 

It throws no shadows on the grass 

Tempting the wayfarers who pass 

To stop and sit there quietly. 

The poplar sees each neighbour tree 
Loved by the birds. The oriole 
Swings from the elm its home ; the bole 
Of that rough oak, above, around, 
Hears the woodpecker's rapid sound 
As on he works industriously. 

The poplar is a slender tree. 

It has no boughs where children try 

To climb far off into the sky. 

To hold a swing it's far too weak. 

Too small it Is for hide-and-seek. 

Friendless, forsaken it must be. 

The poplar is a restless tree. 

At every breeze Its branches bend 

And signal to the child, "Come, friend." 

40 



Poplars 

Its leaves forever whispering 

To thrush and robin, "Stay and sing." 

They pass. It quivers plaintively. 

Poplars are lonely. They must grow 
Close to each other in a row. 



41 



A PORTRAIT 

Her love is like the peaceful summer sky 
Where winds are shepherding their 
straggling sheep; 
Or like the star-sown heavens, serene and 
high, 
Radiant and so unfathomably deep. 

Her life has all the joy of dawn; the light, 
The glowing ardour of the burning noon; 

The comforting tranquillity of night. 

The silent promise of the crescent moon. 

Her love is like the untrammelled heaven, 
that free 
Yet bends with richest blessing o'er the 
land. 
God alone knows what such a love can be ; 
He made the heavens, and He can under- 
stand. 



42 



THE SILENCE 

Down the gray crags in the vale below 
Wound the river, a gossamer thread. 

Our thoughts were as deep as the rocky steep, 
But never a word we said. 

On crimson clouds we could faintly trace 

The path of the homing bird; 
Our hopes soared high as the sun-flushed sky. 

Yet we whispered never a word. 

Then soul met soul ; no speech we sought 
For the noblest words seemed vain. 

The earth and the sky must speak the thought 
When heart calls to heart again. 

No speech could declare the soul laid bare 

In a vision of all life meant. 
But the words that the silence whispered 
there 

We shall hear till our life be spent. 



43 



TO MEMORY 

Pale wistful dreamer, brooding o'er the past, 
Listening to dying music far away, 

Rest In your twilight home where burn the 
last 
Faint, smouldering fires of day. 

I never ask to hear your footstep light 
Upon the door-sill of my peaceful hall. 

Nor listen at my window in the night 
For your soft murmuring call. 

I know your message; I have found earth 
sweet 
As new-mown meadows or the balsam's 
breath; 
Life, rich with brave friends; gay, with 
children's feet — 
To dream on this Is death. 

For as this earth whirls ceaselessly through 
space 
So man, earth's child, must never rest; and 
when 

44 



To Memory 

The past allures, must know his fairest place 
Shines just beyond his ken. 

At night when all the guests have supped and 
gone, 

The fire they circled on the hearth has died, 
I shall not stoop o'er embers. With the dawn 

Scatter the ashes wide ! 



45 



WAR 

(On the German Invasion of Belgium) 

They who take the sword, 

To slay for lust of gain, 
With fleets In air, with ships at sea. 
Vast armies. Death's artillery. 
Can they break the might of the Lord's de- 
cree? 

With the sword they shall be slain. 

They who take the sword, 

In swords have put their trust. 
Their foes shall be the unnumbered dead, 
(No sentry hears that army's tread) 
Who shall dash the crown from the victor's 
head. 
And trample it In the dust. 

They who take the sword, 

A child shall their end foretell; 
One dying mother's faintest sigh, 
One girl's imploring, piercing cry. 
Shall ring like a blast in their souls till they 
die. 
Shall ring through their souls in hell. 

46 



War 

They who take the sword, 

What gain Is victory? 
Though blood-drenched flags in triumph 

float, 
Their new-won lands are a burial moat; 
Better, with millstone 'round the throat, 

Were they flung to the pitiless sea. 

They who take the sword. 

For lust, and hate, and gain. 
The strength of the hills 'gainst them is set, 
The sword of the spirit is sharper yet, — 
For God hath said — shall God forget? — 

With the sword they shall be slain. 

August 3, 1914 



47 



TO AN OXFORD FRIEND KILLED 
IN ACTION 

(After reading a poem by W. M. Letts) 

I saw you last beside the stream 
That flows near Oxford town. 

We moored the punt and on the bank 
At ease we flung us down, 

And talked until the twilight shades 

Turned the green meadows brown. 

Pleasant the bells, that afternoon. 
Sounding from distant spires; 

Pleasant the notes of larks unseen. 
As songs of heavenly choirs; 

Pleasant to talk of all life brings 
And what the heart desires. 

You left the meadows for that field 
Where men by Death are tried. 

Dauntless your hopes, your life you threw 
Down in the battle's tide ; 

And now you live with all brave souls 
Who fought the fight and died. 

48 



To AN Oxford Friend 

The pleasant fields near Oxford town 

Lie In a deeper shade, 
I think of all her splendid youths 

Who met Death, unafraid. 
(God help a land that idly dreams. 

Or counts her gain in trade.) 

October, 19 15 



49 



PAUL 

Hotel St. Sulpice — you'll not know 
The place; It's small. Ten years ago 
Paul, my stout gargon, broad of chest, 
Is on his knees in feverish zest 
To polish well my bed-room floor, 
When sudden, through the tight-closed door, 
There comes a rasping, strident call. 
It louder grows: "Que fals-tu, Paul?" 
"Courage," I say, "n'aie pas de peur! 
La Patronne — you're afraid of her?" 
"Mais oul, mals oui." She calls again. 
He runs. What cowards are we men! 

To-day, a letter from a trench; 

The writing's bad — and worse, the French. 

"Monsieur, I write to let you know 

How Paul was shot three days ago. 

How brave he was! It came this way: 

In Noman's land four Frenchmen lay 

Wounded and groaning in their pain; 

We thought to bring them in again. 

We sent out four brancardiers 

50 



Paul 

And the Boches shot them. There they lay, 

Eight groaning now (what could we do?) : 

'Mais vous, nos freres, Ah! tuez nous.' 

And Paul, 'twas more than he could bear, 

Crawled in the dark to get them there. 

He knew 'twas death, but he would try. 

He kissed me when he said good-bye. 

He raised one man, for he was strong, 

And crawling carried him along 

When pouf ! a sudden blaze of light, 

A rocket makes a day of night, 

But Paul was almost home; he reeled. 

Covering his blesse like a shield. 

'Another step, he's safe,' I said — 

He fell within our trenches — dead. 

You're too far off to understand 

Ces Boches; we have them close at hand. 

And so he's gone, it had to be, 

But then, he died pour la Patrie." 

Hotel St. Sulpice, there once more 

I see him polishing my floor; 

I hear an angry voice repeat: 

"Que fais-tu, Paul? Viens, done, vite!" 

He shakes his head, he looks dismayed; 

I jeer at him, "What, Paul, afraid? 

51 



Paul 

Don't think you're going to be shot." 
"Mais pourquoi pas? quelle f emme ! quelle 
boite!" 



52 



THE BIRD 

Once when a child, he found within the 
neighbouring wood 
A wounded dove and bore It home with 
streaming eyes. 
That birds he loved could die, he had not 
understood. 
And half his words told grief, and half a 
strange surprise. 

He nursed the bird in vain; he woke to find 
It dead. 
We could not still his grief; but when his 
tears were spent 
He dug its little grave within the roses' bed. 
And with some treasured stones, built a 
quaint monument. 

A man, he loathed the war, but heard his 
country's call. 
Scorning to hide behind the lives of braver 
friends, 

53 



The Bird 

Straight to the front he went; forsook the 
college hall 
And sought the perilous post, knowing 
where such task ends. 

An eagle, high he soared and watching far 
below 
The hostile armies come, signalled what 
he descried. 
Telling his men to ward the sudden, des- 
perate blow. 
Then in the clouds, alone, with no friend 
near, he died. 

For him no childish hands will dig a peaceful 
grave. 
What does the freed soul care where the 
torn body lies? 
And who can mourn his flight? Clean, loyal, 
tender, brave. 
Swift flew his soul to God, far in the happy 
skies. 



54 



CAVALIER SONG 

1642 

If this be my last hour with thee, 

For none may Fate control, 
Take as thine own a heart that's free, 

And the worship of my soul. 
For where the trumpet-blasts ring out. 

And men rush In to die. 
Amid the thickest of the rout. 

My sword must flash on high. 

I'll serve thee as my king and lord. 

Thine till my latest breath, 
A soldier's word, a soldier's sword, 

Are thine, my dear, till death. 
Fate has no power to decide 

Whether I live or fall. 
For with thee Death I shall deride, 

Without thee, I lose all. 



5S 



A MEMORY 

Over the balsams a golden fleece 

Floats in the evening sky. 
Gently the night wind whispers peace, 

Softly the branches sigh. 

Joys that once thrilled, 

Sorrows that stilled, 

Come not again from the past. 

Hopes that once led 

Are forgotten and dead. 

Then why should this memory last? 

Over the balsams a golden fleece 

Fades in the darkening sky. 
A wood-thrush is singing of rest and of peace, 

Gently the night winds sigh. 



56 



FAME 

At length he laid his weary pen aside, 

Read the last notes of his great symphony, 

And loving it supremely, said with pride 
"Surely by this shall men remember me." 

A careless song that sprang from out his 
heart, 
That told the joys of earth, nor thought 
for fame, 
Alone survives his laboured works of art 
And saves for us an else forgotten name. 



57 



A PICTURE 

On harpsichord, Clarissa plays 
The melodies of by-gone days. 
Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune, 
The bars of stately rigadoon. 
With head bent down to scan each note, 
A crimson ribbon round her throat. 
The very birds to sing forget 
As some old-fashioned minuet 
Clarissa plays. 

King George long since has passed away, 
And minuets have lived their day. 
Within some hidden attic nook 
Lies in the dust her music book. 
Gone are those keys her fingers pressed, 
Gone with the roses at her breast. 
Yet still unmindful of Time's flight 
With face demure, with fingers light, 
Clarissa plays. 



THE LECTURE 

College de France, a dingy room; 

Bent o'er the desk, he turns his pages 
Droning a lecture in the gloom 

On '^Beauty in the Middle Ages," 

Outside, the world in May attire 

Would make the dullest, calmest sages 

Throw all their books into the fire — 
Here's "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 

First, he will take "a rapid view"; 

He ambles on in lengthy stages. 
I might be walking at St. Cloud, 

But — "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 

Tonight the woods of Fontainebleau — 
Another theme his mind engages, 

Another point we all must know 
Of "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 

Out in the street I hear a song; 

We sit mute, captive birds in cages. 
Our life is short, the lecture's long. 

O "Beauty in the Middle Ages." 

59 



The Lecture 

Without, the sky with stars is sown. 

Wisdom, is this your gift, your wages ! 
Poor man — his world a stick, a stone, 

That's "Beauty in the Middle Ages.'' 

Long years of study — this is all. 

Anger, revolt within me rages. 
"Le cinquieme point" — I leave the hall. 

He died, lost in the Middle Ages. 



60 



THE WOOD ROAD 

All day they are hurrying off to the Fair; 
We'll let them pass by us, no whit do we care 
Though they beckon and shout from each 

gay wagon-load; 
We'll turn from the highway and take the 

wood road. 

Each hawker is calling the folks to his ware, 

And there's pushing and crowding all over 
the Fair 

As if some great river its banks had over- 
flowed; 

So we'll turn from the highway and take the 
wood road. 

They tell me there's wonderful sights at the 

Fair, 
But there's nothing so fine as your lips and 

your hair; 
Your eyes they shine brighter than stars ever 

glowed. 
So we'll turn from the highway and take the 

wood road. 

6i 



The Wood Road 

They're spending their money like mad at the 

Fair, 
But I'm saving mine for a house you will 

share. 
'Twill be with you in it a splendid abode, 
So we'll turn from the highway and take the 

wood road. 

'Tis the day of the year, they all say, at the 
Fair, 

But the day of our wedding^ you'll see the 
folks stare 

For you're sweet as a rose, as a meadow new- 
mowed; 

Then we'll turn from the highway and take 
the wood road. 



62 



RAIN 

The April rain falls quietly, 

With soft caress for bush and tree, 

And where the seeds lie buried deep 

It sinks, to rouse them from their sleep. 

It whispers to the earth ''Prepare 

The fragrant garlands for your hair; 

Weave your bright dress of green, and now 

Waken the leaves on every bough. 

Call back the birds and bid them sing 

In their ecstatic carolling 

Of meadow blossoms, waving grain" — 

The April rain, the April rain. 

Within a city tenement 

There lies a child; her strength is spent. 

The sky, the very walls, the street 

Shrivel this flower with cruel heat. 

The fever burns; she moans and cries, 

'Twere life if sleep could close her eyes. 

Sudden the blazing sky turns gray. 

The wind comes leaping on its way. 

Within the room steals quietly 

The cool breath of the woods and sea. 

63 



Rain 

The child Is still; she sleeps again — 
The August rain, the August rain. 

The trees, mute figures of despair, 
Stand shivering in the biting air. 
Upon the oak the dead leaves cling, 
The faded tokens of the Spring. 
On these gray pensioners bestow 
The tender mantle of the snow. 
From leaden skies the rains descend 
Sharp as the treachery of a frfend. 
The jewelled ice that bends each tree 
Is Death's last, bitter mockery, 
A sword to rend the boughs in twain- 
December rain, December rain. 



64 



SEPTEMBER 

Crickets are making 

The merriest din, 
All the fields waking 

With shrill violin. 

Now all the swallows 

Debate when to go; 
In valleys and hollows 

The mists are like snow. 

Dahlias are glowing 

In purple and red 
Where once were growing 

Pale roses instead. 

Piled up leaves smoulder, 

All hazy the noon, 
Nights have grown colder, 

The frost will come soon. 

Early lamps burning, 
So soon the night falls. 

Leaves, crimson turning. 

Make bright the stone walls. 

65 



September 

Summer recalling 
At turn of the year, 

Fruit will be falling, 
September is here. 



66 



LIBRARY OF 



CONGRESS 



^18 349 71 fi Qf 



